"Come in, Potter."

Harry entered the office nervously, biting his lip. Snape had been particularly unpleasant over the past few days, and he wasn’t exactly itching to test the man’s patience.

"I have spoken with the Headmaster, Potter, and we have agreed that your natural features will be restored for your (he grimaced, as though the word he was about to speak was something filthy ) visit. Some alterations will be made, of course, concerning your eye-color and your scar."

"But why?" Harry burst, not able to hold the question in. Why did he have to change his appearance just for Snape’s house? Harry didn’t see Snape changing anything about himself, although it would have been a nice change if he could clean his hair for once. . . . "If it’s just because you don’t like me looking like my dad. . . ."

"James Potter was not your father, Potter," Snape reminded grimly, sounding as though he very much wished it were a lie. "Of course, I shouldn’t have expected you to understand this, It does, after all, require a brain capacity larger than that of three year-old’s. Think, Potter!" The boy was far more foolish than even Snape had suspected. "Think of—" he began, but was interrupted rather rudely by Potter.

"Death Eaters, right? They’d recognize me right away and want me taken to Voldemort, and then you’d be caught as a spy, and, well, Voldemort’d be pleased, wouldn’t he?"

"How many times have I told you, Potter, not to speak the Dark Lord’s name aloud!"

"Sorry, sir," Harry said quickly, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "But the Death eaters, they come often, do they?" He sounded anxious, but not in a way that most would discussing such matters. Indeed, Harry seemed far more interested in meeting a Death Eater than in avoiding one.

"Not often, no." Snape looked angry. Harry could tell he was pushing his already short limits, but he couldn’t help it. If Bellatrix Lestrange came, he would finally have a clear shot at her. He could avenge Sirius. Unfortunately for Harry, Snape was not fond of this idea. "She does not visit me, Potter, and if I ever catch you thinking of such matter again—" He pointed threateningly to the crystalline bottle. "I do not often play host to Death Eaters. The change in your appearance and name is simply in preparation for the worst case scenario," he explained, staring fixedly at the boy’s face. Entirely Potter’s, disgustingly.

"Do I get to pick my name?" Harry asked hopefully. He couldn’t imagine what kind of name he’d get landed with if Snape was picking it.

"No." The potions master smirked, summoning his bottle of scotch and filling a glass. "I believe the right to chose your name is my responsibility, Potter."

He groaned. Bloody brilliant.

"Therefore, I have decided your alias will be Padriac Eleizer Domingart."

Harry gaped, mouthing ‘Eleizer Domingart’? The name Padriac came as no surprise, seeing as how Snape had already threatened him with it, but Eleizer Domingart? It was absurd.

"He was a student at Accademia di Puro-Sangue, a pure-blood school in the south of Italy. The school was recently annihilated, but the headmaster managed to attain the records of the Domingart boy, as he was the closest match to your appearance and age."

"He’s Italian," Harry choked in disbelief. He was going to be acting as a dead Italian boy? It was perfectly morbid. He had a strong sense that Snape had something to do with the choosing of Padriac.

"British," Snape corrected, taking a heavy drought of his scotch. "16, born in July of 1980. He grew up in Ireland and was only recently moved to Italy, but I doubt anyone will do truly thorough research on the boy. He was oprhaned, so there are no relatives that need to be dealt with." He coughed, giving Harry a pointed glare.

Potter looked positively mortified. Snape allowed himself a small smirk and a swig of scotch, pointing to a rather large stack of papers that were wobbling next to an even larger filing cabinet.

"I have not forgotten your detention, Potter. Alphabetically, academically, and chronologically in order. You have all night, so I warn you to get it done correctly the first time, or you will begin again."

Trust Snape to make an already bad night even worse.

O O O

Harry could hardly believe how quickly the days were going by.

It was already mid-November, with Christmas holidays drawing closer every second. He spent his time preparing the Gryffindor Quidditch team for the first match of the season—having been made Quidditch Captain that summer—and struggling to keep up with the vast amounts of homework the professors kept loading on him. Fortunately, Snape’s detentions had ended a few days ago; he didn’t know if he’d have been able to even survive the workload with those to deal with as well.

To top it all off, Harry was still having his private lessons with Dumbledore. They were becoming increasingly interesting. So far, he couldn’t quite work out how Bob Odgen and the Gaunt family would help him win a war, seeing as they were already dead, but Harry trusted Dumbledore, and if Dumbledore was showing him all of this, there must have been a perfectly good reason for it.

“Harry! Harry, are you even paying attention?”

Hermione was glaring from behind a large stack of books, slamming them down on the table between Harry and Ron.

“Er. . .”

“I was just telling you how—”

She never got a chance to finish, for at that moment, Madame Pince, the librarian, came bustling through, shooing them out and screaming about library rules.

“Back to the common room, then,” said Ron, nodding pointedly in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. Harry shook his head.

“I’ve just remembered something, meet you there!” Without giving them a chance to reply, he sprinted back to the library, avoiding a cackling Peeves who was making his way down the hall with a bundle of matchsticks.

Where could on find old news clippings? Madame Pince swooped down on him, glowering suspiciously.

“Can I help you, young man?” Her nose was wrinkled in distaste, and Harry could tell that she didn’t want to ‘help him’ at all. Still, though, it couldn’t hurt to try, could it? It could save ages of exploring the dusty library shelves.

“Erm, I was just wondering if you had any newspaper clippings, you know, from the Prophet, or something,” he explained, praying she wouldn’t recognize him as the boy who had just been kicked out.

“Anything in particular?”

Harry glanced around, before saying quietly, “About a school—Accademia di Puro-Sangue.”

Madame Pince regarded him for a moment, as if she was trying to guess his motives. Finally satisfied, she led him toward a small corner with labeled boxes of the Prophet arranged in chronological order. With a flick of her wand, Madame Pince summoned one of the boxes and set it down on a table.

“In here,” she said stiffly, pointing to the box. “Mind you put it back when you finish, and don’t make a mess.” She stalked off, lips pursed in an expression that would have done Aunt Petunia proud. Harry grinned to himself and popped open the box, coughing as dust from the lid swirled the air in front of him.

No time to worry about allergies; hr had another lesson with Dumbledore tonight, and the headmaster had assigned him the separate duty to find out as much about Padriac Dagonart as possible.

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Harry dug through the box, pulling out the first paper.

It proved to be excruciatingly dull work. He had gone halfway through the entire box without a single mentioning of Accademia di Puro-Sangue. There was a small article after that about the security measures the school had taken up to protect its students.

Haven’t done a very good job, have you? Harry couldn’t help but think.

He was almost at the bottom of the box when he Saw it:

ITALIAN SCHOOL DESTROYED BY YOU-KNOW-WHO: 200 REPORTED KILLED

Not a week before, Accademia di Puro-Sangue stood tall and proud in the countryside of Italy. Nearly five hundred years old, the school was a beacon of hope to its 200 hundred European students, ranging from ages 9 to 17. The school which was known for it’s strict policy on blood purity, has been believed to be on You-Know-Who’s target list to gather followers for years. Two days ago, the Academy was attacked by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his loyal followers. The entire building was demolished, destroying centuries-old works of art, and all but three of its occupants. “It was just this great explosion,” says one boy—a third year—while tears well in his eyes. “We watched from the field. We could not believe it.” In all of the confusion, several bodies have recently been discovered amongst the rubble, but Italian authorities say that one boy still remains missing. Sixteen year-old Padriac Dagonart, the Boticci (a game similar to Quidditch) captain of one of the school’s former house teams. “The boy’s body had not yet been located, but searchers remain hopeful,” says a representative of the Italian ministry’s Department of International Magical Disasters and Catastrophes (Dipartimento di Internazionale Magico Disastri e Catastrofe), Antonio Bernini. The muggle orphan’s home, St. Peter’s Children’s Home, in Dublin, Ireland anxiously awaits the return of the boy that has lived there since birth.

Pulling out his quill and some parchment, Harry hastily jotted down a few key facts before replacing the article in its proper box.

As much as he loathed Snape, Harry had to admit, the man was clever. How he had managed to find a 16 year-old boy with no living family, captain of his house’s Boticci team, and many people believing him to be dead, was beyond Harry. All it would take now was Dumbledore altering a few records to write that the boy had been found and apprenticed to Severus Snape, and the new identity would be perfect. As a master, Snape would have power similar, if even a bit more, than that of a father’s. He could keep ‘Padriac’ at Hogwarts, or wherever, refusing to allow him to go back to Ireland or Italy.

Replacing the box, Harry went off in search of a book on Boticci.

He found one not much later, and left the library, hiding the slim volume under the sleeves of his school robes. He would need to find a quiet, private place to read, somewhere he would not be disturbed. . . .

I need a place to read, where no one can find or bother me. . . .I need a place. . . .

A tapestry of two knights jousting appeared at once on the wall. One, the Red knight, looked up when Harry approached and promptly fell off his horse.

“Who are you and what is your business?” His little voice was commanding. The Blue knight watched silently.

“Har—Padriac Dagonart, and I need a quiet place to read,” Harry stuttered, holding out his book to back himself up.

The knight narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing him. At long last, he said in a voice that demanded obedience and respect, “A noble name. You may enter, sir, but only you.” He peered around, as if expecting someone to jump out from behind a pillar or under an invisibility cloak.

“Thanks.”

The room had transformed itself into a comfortable-looking study. A fire crackled in an antique fireplace, large, overstuffed armchairs surrounding it. There was a desk sitting under a portrait of a peaceful, empty meadow, the green grass blowing gently in the painted-on breeze. The walls were lined with books, bearing titles such as, ‘What’s In a Name: The Secret to Creating a Good Alias’ and, ‘An Adventure in Wizard Genealogy, by Diddiford N. Alcuro. Discover Your Family and All the Rest!”

Clutching his book on Boticci, Harry made his way to an overstuffed armchair and began to read.

Boticci was similar enough to Quidditch for him to be able to understand, but somewhat difficult when it came to the terminology, as it was all in Italian.

The game was played with five balls; the Curotor (Quaffle), two balls that acted like bludgers, called the Botis, a snitch-like ball called the Ciari, and an extra ball called the Doti, which took turns resting on each team’s goal post. If a player hit the Doti off the postwith the Curotor, that team was awarded fifty points. If the player missed, their team lost ten points and had to surrender the ball to the opposing team.

Padriac had played il a trabbocchetto di Ciari, which was basically the position of seeker.

Harry was wishing he could have visited Accademia di Puro-Sangue, if only to have a go at Boticci. Sighing, he set down the book and picked up a history of European pure-blood families. Accademia only allowed student who were ‘pure-blooded’ into their school, so Dagonart must have been a pure-blood.

“Saint-Claire . . . Mudgebludgey . . . Dargomagus . . . Malfoy . . . Prewitt . . . Prince . . . Gaunt (he paused for a moment before moving on) . . .Dorticelli . . . Parkinson . . . Nott . . .Black (skipping over that particular family tree) . . . Weasley . . . Dagonart!”

The Dagonart family were large and looked to have been quite prosperous. They were distantly related to the Prewitts, and a little closer to the Nott and Burdgemagus families. Padriac Eliezer Dagonart was the last of his family line, the son of Nassya Burdgemagus and Norphilius Dagonart. Scanning the tree, Harry realized with a jolt that the boy’s closest living family were the Notts. His mind immediately went to Theodore Nott, who was a Slytherin at Hogwarts. Fortunately for Harry, according to the book, the Nott and Dagonart families had been feuding for over seventy-three years. Theodore had never met his cousin.

Pulling off his glasses, Harry rubbed his eyes tiredly. It had been an unusually long day for a Saturday. He remembered with a fair amount of guilt that he had promised Ron and Hermione he would meet them in the common room. How much time had he taken up reading? Frowning, he glanced at his watch. It was 6:45 pm, fifteen minutes until dinner started. Thinking that Ron and Hermione might be looking for him, Harry placed the books back onto a shelf for safe-keeping and raced out of the secret door, not noticing as the tapestry disappeared behind him.

“Harry!”

Harry came to a screeching halt. Hermione was striding over, a pink-eared Ron in tow.

“Dumbledore said, well, never mind, but I’m supposed to give this to you,” she explained briskly, stuffing a note into his hands. “Where did you run off to? Ron and I have been looking all over, and—what?”

Harry shook his head, crumpling the parchment and stuffing it in his pocket. “Dumbledore’s cancelled our lesson, says something came up, and,” He snorted in disgust, leaning in close so that only Ron and Hermione could hear. “Snape wants to see me tonight about continuing with Occlumency.” The last words were added in barely a whisper. In truth, Snape’s note said Harry had ‘remedial potions’ that night, but he knew what it really meant.

“So much homework lately. Dunno what they’re thinking,” Ron grumbled in complaint.

“Well, we’ve got N.E.W.T.s next year, haven’t we?” Hermione took a sip from her goblet, scanning a heavy-looking book. “You are going to try harder this time, aren’t you, Harry?” She glanced at him anxiously.

Harry, who had been quite pleased not having to take Occlumency anymore, nodded and swallowed a mouthful of porkchop.

“Haven’t got much of a choice, have I?”

The situation with Snape made things far more complicated than they had ever been before. He could no longer consider skiving off detentions or classes. Snape held the power, and there was no doubt that if he got the proper chance, he would most certainly abuse it. Uncle Vernon had always been boasting the power he had over Harry. And while a professor in Dumbledore’s school would most likely be reprimanded for the use of corporal punishment on a student, Harry wasn’t fool enough to underestimate the upper hand given to Snape for his position.

Ron shrugged and dug into his pudding, not noticing Hermione bolting down her food before rushing off to finish an essay for Professor Vector.

O O O

“Come in, Potter.”

Snape was standing in the center of the room, Dumbledore’s Pensieve sitting on his desk, while its silver contents swirled and glistened in the candlelight.

“Wand out, and face me,” Snape instructed lazily, flicking his wand so that the door locked itself. His eyes had a dangerous glint in them, but before Harry could even give it a thought, Snape had raised his wand, shouting, “Legilimens!”

Harry felt as though a bludger had just knocked him in the stomach.

He tried to clear his head as images began flitting past his mind’s eye, like a film reel, showing snippets of the past.

“Harry! Where’s Harry?” His mum was laughing, her green eyes shiny and happy. The doorbell rang, and she stood. “Who could that be?”

He was seven and Uncle Vernon was screaming something about the neighbors’ cat blowing up.

He was eleven, and it was the first time he’d ever seen Severus Snape.

His mum and dad were smiling from behind the glass in the Mirror of Erised.

“You look just like him,” Sirius sneered. “You look just like that filthy bastard, just like dear old Snivellus.”

No . . . not Sirius.

“Aaaaarrggghhh!”

A young man with greasy black hair and a large, hooked nose was being thrown from the Hog’s Head by the stoic barman.

Snape, much younger, was sitting at Dumbledore’s desk, looking unusually nervous. “Sir, I came to tell you . . .”

Harry found himself knocked flat on his back, Snape’s face swimming above him, his pale features flickering in the light from the black tapers, suffused with loathing.

“Stand up, Potter. You are not trying nearly as hard as you ought to! Now more than ever, it is crucial for you to learn this skill! What did I tell you, boy? What did I tell you?”

Before he could stop himself, Harry heard his own voice say coolly, “I’m trying, sir, but it’s a bit difficult when you keep shouting at me.”

Snape’s hand reared back, fingers clawed and ready to strike; Harry was suddenly struck with the peculiar feeling of deja vu. The two stood, frozen, glaring at one another. Harry knew that there was nothing stopping the greasy git hitting him right there. What he could he do, hit back? Somehow, that only seemed as if it would make matters worse.

Time seemed to have stop, two solitary statues standing, bathed in the light from a couple of dying candles, until Snape, his lip curled into a sneer, seemed to think the better of what he was doing and dropped his hand.

“On the count of three, Potter,” he ground out, raising his wand once again. Harry followed suit, feeling slightly confused. “One . . . two . . . LEGILIMENS!”

As hard as he tried, Harry had not been able to clear his mind. The anger and fatigue permeating his body prevented anything even remotely related to his brain from working.

He was in his reading room, looking up Boticceli. There was Hermione, passing along Dumbledore’s note.

“POTTER!”

When Harry at last opened his eyes, he found Snape rubbing his jaw in frustration, the vein in his temple pulsing furiously.

“You are not focusing, boy!” Snape’s eyes narrowed, and he strode forward, Harry’s collar entwined in his clutched fist, shoving the boy into a chair.

“Do you have a death wish, Potter?”

It was all Harry could do to stop his mouth dropping open in surprise; he had no answer.

“The Dark Lord is a powerful Legilimens.” Snape paced up and down in front of Harry’s chair, subconsciously rubbing his left forearm, and Harry was almost certain he knew why. “Imagine if he were to discover this . . .”

“Relationship?” Harry offered, his green eyes dark.

“Silence, Potter. Now—imagine if he were to discover this connection, boy. Surely even someone with a mental caliber as low as yours would not be fool enough to believe that I would be shown any mercy for this discovery. Of course not. He would torture me first for information, before killing me on the spot, and that would be if I was fortunate. The entire resistance would be terminated. No longer would there be a spy on the other side, passing along valuable information needed to win.”

Harry shuddered involuntarily, his eyes not leaving Snape for a minute. How did he know the man wasn’t really evil? How did he know if he could trust ‘Snivellus’? Snape was a known Death Eater, for Merlin’s sake!

“That’s it, then, isn’t it?” His voice was loud, accusing. “That’s all you care about is your own safety. Been double-crossing both your masters, have you? I bet you don’t even care who dies. You don’t care which side wins, as long as it’s the side you’re on. All you care about is saving your own neck, while everyone else is out, risking theirs. The tables turn, and you go along with them, don’t you!”

He did not know why he was letting Snape affect him so much. Harry had grown used to the potion master’s sharp tongue, learning to ignore it, but the past few months had been beyond taxing. He still hadn’t forgiven Snape for last year, for Sirius.

Snape remained frozen, a shadow crossing his face.

“You’re nothing but a coward,” Harry said through clenched teeth. “You’re nothing but great, big sodding coward.”

The room was so still, Harry could have sworn he heard the flames of the candles flickering.

“Get out of my office, Potter.” Snape’s voice was deathly quiet, hoarse, even. “Get out!”

Harry didn’t waste any time in obeying, scrambling out the door, just thankful that none of the jars full of slimy things had been airborne this time.

O O O

“So he just kicked you out? Just like that?” Hermione questioned for what seemed to be the six-hundredth time, sounding shocked.

“Figures, though, doesn’t it? I mean, it is Snape we’re talking about.” Ron ruffled his hair, pushing past a group of first year Slytherins. “So, what—Oi! Give that here, you!” He pulled one of Fred and George Weasley’s Skiving Snack-boxes out of the hands of a small, dark-haired boy. “Next time I’m docking points,” he warned gleefully, watching the Slytherin’s face change from tan to milk-white in a matter of seconds.

“Finally decided to take your position seriously, have you?” Hermione glowed, sounding proud.

Ron ignored her, pulling out a couple of orange and purple sweets. “Blimey, Nodebleed Nougat! That’s the most expensive, that is. Reckon it’s going for about seven sickles a box now, and I’ve only just run out!”

Hermione rolled her eyes, emitting a long, suffering sigh. She had long since given up trying to make Ron a proper Prefect.

“Do you think he’ll let you back? I mean, you did manage to make him lose his temper , but it’s obviously important you learn Occlumency. I’m sure Dumbledore would be furious if he refused to continue with your lessons.”

“Dunno,” Harry said darkly, watching as Malfoy walked by, flanked, as usual, by his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. “But I don’t reckon Dumbledore’s let him stop.” That seemed to end the conversation for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, but it did little to cease the battle currently waging in Harry’s head.

As though he had just performed Legilimency himself, Ron pressed a sticky, orange sweet into Harry’s empty hand—Nosebleed Nougat. Harry pocketed it, think to himself that it would take a lot more than blood gushing out of his nose to get out of facing Snape.

“Morning, everyone,” Lupin announced cheerfully. He paused for a minute to survey the room, nodding in acknowledgment at the weak, sing-song chorus of ‘Morning, Professor’ as it hit his ears.

A Hufflepuff girl in the back of the room made the mistake of saying ‘Professor Umbridge’, which earned her a fair amount of taunting from all the rest.

Smiling, Lupin silenced them and sent the Hufflepuff girl, who had burst into tears, off to the toilet for a wash.

“Today, we will be learning about Inferi.”

Harry poked his head up, interested. The Ministry Safety leaflet had mentioned Voldemort using Inferi to do his bidding. Perhaps Remus knew of an effective way to kill them off, or something?

“Who can tell me what is the difference between an Inferius and a ghost?”

As expected, Hermione’s hand shot up at lightning speed, nearly knocking of Harry’s glasses.

“How about you, Neville? No? Ron, Seamus? Ah, Harry. Why don’t you have a go?”

Thinking hard, Harry said slowly, “Well, ghosts are transparent, aren’t they?”

Zacharias Smith snickered from the back of the room, lobbing a note at a blond boy with big eyes and a pointed chin.

“Well, yes, I suppose that is true, however, I’m afraid I’m looking for something a bit more—Hermione, did you have something to add?”

Hermione, her face bright pink, began to rattle off everything she had ever read about Inferi, including a painfully detailed account of a Scottish wizard named Blasphemius Barnaby’s own experience battling Voldemort’s Inferi in the summer of 1978.

“Hermione makes an excellent point. Ten points to Gryffindor, and five for you, Harry, for answering. Now, and Inferius, as Hermione pointed out, is a dead body that had been bewitched to walk and do the bidding of its master. It has no soul or life force, just a complex spell that keeps it upright, a bit like a puppet. Inferi are pale and bloodless, tending to shun excessive brightness and warmth, preferring the cool atmosphere of, say—”

“A dungeon?” Harry interrupted. Behind him, Dean and Seamus erupted into a fit of laughter. Ron snorted loudly, trying to cover it with a cough and thanking Neville, who was trying to hide his own amused smile, for slapping his back.

“I can see your confusion, Harry, but we must not get out Inferi confused with our Potions Masters,” Lupin chided good-naturedly, biting back a wry grin. Allowing the class a moment to settle down, he started up his lesson, hoping to Merlin that there would be no repeat of third year, and Severus would never find out about their little joke.